


Seven Years Bad Luck

by Hambone



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Background Character Death, Birthing, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mentioned violence, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Religious Fanaticism, Sex-Induced Labor, Squirting, Trans Character, Unrequited Love, Urination, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Damien helps his dear friend create a Great One.
Relationships: Micolash (Bloodborne)/Damian (Bloodborne)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Seven Years Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Mensis is a party school and Micolash is the head of the fracas. I genuinely doubt the Brain of Mensis was made in the nightmare given how it's already strung up and stuff but there's no real explanation about it otherwise so here's my fun take on it lol. I feel like this has tonal issues but really I just wanted to get the idea out there so... whatever. 
> 
> There's an explicit sexualized birth scene in this so be aware. Also some unnamed Mensis staff die. Otherwise, enjoy!

Damien watched Micolash exit the classroom, surrounded by a crowd of eager students. The hall, which had been silent moments ago, rang with their chatter, punctuated every so often by an exclamation as they struggled to all talk at once, eager for their Headmaster’s attention. Those who were closest at his sides occasionally reached out a daring hand to gently touch his rotund stomach reverently, having spent the past hour itching to do so. Damien couldn’t blame them for desiring to be close to such grandeur.

Somehow Micolash managed to disperse the crowd with the utmost gentility before he had reached his associate, waving them off to their next classes as he waddled across the hallway, beams of waning sunlight glimmering like black pearls in his wild hair.

“Your dedication to your pupils is admirable,” Damien said mildly, and Micolash, already knowing what he meant, chuffed dismissively, though in good humor, gently slapping at his shoulder as he finally reached him.

“At this moment, when we are this close – when I am this close – to seeing it, really, truly knowing it, you’d expect me to stop my lessons? Nonsense.”

They proceeded from the lecture hall together, largely in amiable tranquility, Damien slowing his usually brisk pace to accommodate for Micolash’s considerably burdened gate. He was so incredibly far along in his pregnancy, stomach protruding bizarrely from his skinny build, and Damien was honestly impressed he could still stand behind a podium for more than a few minutes. Micolash had always excelled at surprising, though, and he knew he should have expected something like this from him. It was one of the many things that made him special, unique even, a perfect mind and body for their work. There would not be another like him for hundreds of years, they were all sure. It was truly a cosmic blessing, a sign, that he existed now, in this place and time, in their college, able to give the world what it needed.

When they reached the staff housing, Micolash did require some help with the stairs, taking Damien’s arm gratefully. Though they were both clothed in long sleeves, robes billowing at their elbows, he could feel the Headmaster’s touch like electricity along his skin, raising gooseflesh across his whole body. It had been building in intensity over the months, as he had grown swollen with the great child inside him, as if its power was in some way being transmitted through him as a conduit even before it was fully developed. The whole ascent, Micolash had been rambling on about the students, their thoughts and ideas, breath becoming thinner as the strain of carrying his heavy baggage winded him, and as they reached the final landing Damien found he too was growing breathless, though for a significantly different reason.

“He’s bright, that Edgar, I can see it in his eyes, in the way he looks at things, but he’s so resistant to theory over proven fact. I swear, the only time he actually says anything intelligent I’m certain it’s something he’s stolen from someone else, or at the very least a thing that he did not concoct alone. I don’t know what his game is, but if he don’t find it out soon there’s going to be trouble.”

“I seem to remember some teachers having similar things to say about you, once.”

Damien closed the door to the Headmaster’s room and began shrugging off his uniform, smiling innocently when Micolash shot him a sly look.

“I don’t recall you having any complaints about my work.”

“That’s because I could see what my stuffy old colleagues could not.”

Having divested himself of his robes, Damien moved to help Micolash with his. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t care for himself in his condition, but they were both well aware that he enjoyed the pampering a bit. Now in only his shirt and trousers, Micolash sat down in a dusty armchair by the window with a deep, billowing sigh, as if the pressure of his pregnant belly pushed all the air from him.

“Byrgenwerth,” he scoffed quietly, “what a joke they were.”

Choosing to remain standing, Damien admired his Headmaster. When they had met, he was a young teacher, green to the business, hired early into the decline of the school by the lake, and Micolash was a student who had somehow made it past his first few years without getting expelled despite his new and, some considered, blasphemous theories. Even then his brilliance had been obvious, the way that he saw what others could not. Master Willem was already aging then and did not have much hand in the discipline of the students, which was probably his saving grace; as more began to follow in Laurence’s footsteps, Byrgenwerth needed all the students it could keep. He’d grown infatuated fast. It was hard not to, when Micolash refused to be dissuaded, or spoken down to, too engrossed in the truth he was beginning to unravel for the first time. Little wonder, then, that he had been quickly recruited by Laurence for his new project shortly after the founding of the Healing Church, and by that point Damien would have followed him anywhere.

“They had their uses,” he said, coming to loom by Micolash, a hand resting on the chair back.

“After all, were it not for the discoveries made there, the city we stand in would not exist.”

“You say that, but I’m not so sure.”

Micolash’s eyes were dark and glossy, pinched at the corners with an undisclosed mirth.

“Secrets such as these demand to be uncovered. In time, someone would have found them, school or no school.”

Without his vest, Micolash’s shirt clung awkwardly to his frame. His clothing already did not fit him, fat as he was, and had to be left mostly undone to allow his stomach freedom, but they’d found a few shirts intended for a much larger waist and had them tailored to some semblance of appropriate. Still, it clung tightly to his belly, so much so that the buttons strained in their holes, opening little diamond shaped windows between them to reveal the pale skin within. When he stood the fabric tented out over his chest, without binding, but sitting, when it had relaxed some, Damien could just make out the points of his nipples through the linen, just barely discernible to one who was looking.

“To think, back then, we had little idea that we would end up here, at this turning point in history.”

Catching his gaze, Micolash smiled toothily. He began to unbutton his shirt. Damien swung round to the front of him, kneeling down, and when it was revealed bare to him he put his hands upon Micolash’s stomach.

“Never would we have guessed.”

Though it was hard to tell, given the odd juxtaposition with the Headmaster’s gaunt and elongated figure, his stomach did not seem much larger than that of an average pregnant human woman’s. The skin was stretched taut, so pale that his blue, snaking veins were easy to make out, which Damien traced absently as he gazed upon him. What was more fascinating was the way that what lay beneath emitted color, a faint glow only visible in the darkness, but there, like the reflection of water, greenish inside him. When Damien lay his head along it, he could hear the sea.

“Oh, Damo,” Micolash said, reaching down to run his fingers through his friend’s thin blonde hair, “we are so close.”

Damien did not have much to say, so instead he turned and kissed Micolash’s stomach. It was not a kiss of affection, necessarily, but a kiss of fealty. What lay beneath a few thin layers of dermis and muscle was bigger than the both of them could comprehend.

However, this quickly changed as he kissed him again, a little higher, and then again, working his way up the bump to Micolash’s chest. Normally, Micolash’s breasts were negligible, little more than little bumps of fat behind his broad areolae, but with pregnancy had come a swelling there as well, turning the bumps into more proper tits, sagging in the direction of the child they were intended to nourish. Along with that his nipples seemed to have thickened noticeably, dark and erect. They had not produced anything so far, milk or otherwise, but it hadn’t lessened Damien’s interest in them. When he reached one, he continued to press his lips to the papery skin, and Micolash’s hand in his hair fell back to cup the nape of his neck, encouraging his attentions.

“I can feel it coming,” he continued, as if they were sat over tea, “the consciousness inside me stirs at all hours. I’m hardly able to sleep, with the excitement of it.”

Damien hummed, pulling back so that his hands could replace his mouth, grabbing one of Micolash’s floppy little breasts in each and giving them a good squeeze.

“Sometimes, I can ever hear it, whispering to me from below.”

Pinching his nipples and tugging on them, Damien looked up.

“What does it say?”

Micolash’s toes flexed, leaning his head back with a little sigh of pleasure.

“I can’t always make it out. As described by Caryll, the Great Ones speak without words. Sometimes, it’s like I am so close to being completely enlightened, as if I am on the precipice of ascension, and others,” he broke off to shift into Damien’s touch, closing his eyes as his breasts were kneaded and massaged, “Other times it’s as if my head were about to explode at the utterance of a single syllable. Its maddening.”

“If I were even half as gifted…”

Damien squeezed one of Micolash’s tits into a peak and took the nipple into his mouth, sucking at it harshly. Micolash moaned, stroking his hair as he worked him, hairless brows knitting in a mix of consternation and enjoyment.

“You’ll hear them, one day,” he muttered, Damien rolling his teeth over his nipple almost hard enough to hurt, “we all will.”

Being this close to him was a spiritual experience. He’d had to hunch over Micolash’s bare stomach to reach his chest, and keeping it pressed to him so consistently was electrifying. How Micolash felt, to carry the child, was beyond his ability to imagine. Damien envied him, somewhat, but more than anything he was in awe. Every now and then, as he continued to suck at Micolash’s teat like a starving man, he could swear he felt something inside him push out, rolling shapes just barely deforming the skin with their glow.

“Mm, my back is killing me. Fuck me on the bed.”

Damien let his breast slip from between his lips, looking up to lock eyes with Micolash, whose grin had turned lazy and serene.

“As you wish.”

The ritual to impregnate Micolash had been long and arduous, with many failed attempts before the formula was perfected. The halls of Mensis were lined with cases containing the preserved remains of the twisted failures that had been miscarried, some barely bigger than a coin, little more than a blue ball of flesh, some nearly fully formed. A couple had even lived, kept caged in laboratories to be vivisected and experimented upon until their demise. None were true Great Ones. The failures hadn’t discouraged their team at all, as all good scientists know that success requires many such defeats, and Micolash himself had been particularly cavalier about it, spending long nights awake working his fingers to the bone at the operating table, prying inside the bodies to determine what was missing.

Sex was the key. The Church, with their old ideals, prioritized chastity, morality, purity, all those false notions built on the lore of the old peoples, Pthumerians, those who had demonstrably fallen short in their attempts. It was a fool’s errand to attempt to recreate what they had, but those blind bastards in the Choir insisted upon it. Even when communication had been open between the college and the Church, Micolash had kept his ideas to his inner circle, knowing full well that any missteps would be used as an excuse to condemn the project on a whole. Damien could still remember the night when he had been torn from his slumber by a muted but insistent pounding on his door, a wild eyed Micolash on the other side grinning as if to split his face in half.

“I’ve done it,” he had whispered, shaking Damien by the shoulders, “the womb! It’s the womb!”

Before man or beast walked upon the earth, all life gestated in the sea. The ocean was the world’s womb, the water needed to cradle and sustain developing life, and the portal through which the Great Ones communicated. When animals came to land, they brought the sea with them. Ovum, eggs, contained it, the water needed to create life, and the uterus, the amniotic sac. Their work had already given them the means to open small portals in water and that which resembled it, mirrors, reflections. The connection seemed so obvious that Damien was amazed no one had made it before, and yet at the same time of course it were so, that someone like Micolash would need to explain it to them, open new eyes.

Micolash shucked off his trousers as he clambered onto the bed, the frame creaking at his extra weight. Damien only got a glimpse of his pink vulva, nestled in an untamed bush of black hair, before he turned and collapsed onto his back, propping up his hips as he wriggled a pillow under his bony ass to support it.

“Come on, then!”

He could barely reach between his own legs around the mountain of his belly, but he managed, using both hands to pull back the skin of his pubis mons and make his arousal obvious. Damian began hurriedly removing his own clothes, eyes not leaving the reddening cleft of his cunt the whole time. Looking at him here, the hard work Micolash had put into this endeavor was immediately obvious. Micolash had been sexually active since long before Damien knew him, but over the years, as his experimentation grew more vast and bold, it had changed him physically as well as mentally. His vulva was wide and constantly slick, the wrinkled folds of his inner labia drooping low, a bit of a meaty seam having developed between his overstretched cunt and his well-used asshole. It was the kind of beat to shit box even the most well paid whores in Yharnam would have envied, or perhaps dreaded, a symbol of unrestrained sex. Even at this age, simply seeing it was enough to make Damien’s old cock spring to life with little effort.

Not needing to wait for an invitation, he hunched between Micolash’s bent knees, rubbing his index and long finger on one hand up and down his sex. Micolash chuckled giddily, relaxing back to let Damien work. He was normally maniacally active in their fucking, and even in this more passive state he felt anything but submissive, taking the affection offered him with royal dignity.

His cunt was soaking. The slickness clung to Damien’s fingers like oil, and in the dim light he could almost imagine there was an unearthly sheen to it, the thing inside him changing the very fundamentals of what Micolash was. Forking his fingers around the pearl of his clit, Damien rubbed him back and fourth, spreading him open and getting a good look at his flushed hole. Knowing he was being admired, Micolash flexed himself open in an impressive display of sexual control, winking his cunt flirtatiously.

“Headmaster, you are beautiful.”

Micolash kicked him.

“Aren’t we a little old for platitudes?”

Damien grinned, still masturbating him freely.

“I'm only telling the truth.”

“Stop it! I'm already letting you tramp about my cunny, what more do you want from me?”

“Do I have to want something to tell you you’re beautiful?”

Micolash pushed himself up on his elbows, staring down at him over the mountain between them.

“If you didn’t, then I’d really be worried.”

Damien laughed and leaned up to kiss him directly on the mouth. Micolash lurched into him, accepting and reciprocating giddily. As he shifted to more comfortably perch between Micolash’s thighs, Damien screwed a finger inside him.

“Damn, you feel ripe to burst!”

He broke off to speak, breathing hard, resting their foreheads together as Micolash pecked at his cheek. He’d plunged in easily, Micolash as loose as he was lubricated, and found the knot of his cervix feeling closer than usual. Micolash groaned as he prodded it curiously, ripping around him.

“The pressure is killing me,” he muttered, suckling the lobe of Damien’s ear, “when I sit down I cant tell if I need to piss or sit on a cock more.”

Damien snorted at his vulgarity.

“So, same as always, then?”

Micolash drew him into a kiss in retaliation, mouth open and sloppy. He’d already gotten in a second finger, his other hand struggling to keep him from resting his weight on his partner entirely. Micolash opened around him welcomingly, a vagina he knew full well could take more than his fist if he desired it, but had the skill and discipline to wring dry even the smallest of cocks. He didn't waste time, beginning to frig him hurriedly, the wet slap of his palm filling the small chamber as they began to splatter the sheets. Every so often he’d turn from thrusting to keeping his fingers in deep, stirring him around, and Micolash would flutter against him encouragingly.

When they finally broke apart again, Damien noticed that Micolash had begun to tug at his own nipples, far more harshly than he would have dared. The dusky skin drew his eyes like a magnet.

“Hurry up and fuck me,” he crooned. Damien’s cock was already erect, pointing down between them at its goal. He gave Micolash another long, wet kiss, and then sat back. Pulling his fingers out drew with them a filthy squelch. Curiously, he raised his hand to his face and considered Micolash’s slick, which clung to him thickly. They’d already been gathering samples for months to test, but the possibilities of what came out of the womb that had been blessed still set him alive with wonder. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, savoring the salty flavor, the slight zing of arcane forces on his tongue.

“Damo!”

Micolash canted his hips upward as best he could, aided by the pillow beneath them, so that Damien was forcibly reminded of his aching gash, demanding attention. Managing to tear himself away from his reverie, Damien grabbed his cock and jerked it a few times, lining himself up. Micolash grinned toothily, eyes closed, pulling on his soft tits. He really had meant it when he said the Headmaster was beautiful.

He pushed inside and it made the most obscene noise. Micolash was by no means tight, but he was wet and he was hungry, quivering around him. Damien again lay himself partially over Micolash’s belly, humping into him in short, sharp thrusts. His skin was so pale, crawling with the blue lines of vein and artery, which Damien traced with kisses down to his nipples, up his throat. One of Micolash’s hands made its way around his back, digging in just enough to show he meant it. They twined together, limbs all over, like spiders mating. Gone was the frenzied passion of their youth, but they were no less close, and the velvet slide of Micolash’s pussy was as pleasurable as it had ever been.

Their fucking was loud and liquid. Micolash gushed around him, so slick and hot that it felt as if he were fucking straight into a wound, into the body cavity, pulsing with the vitality of life. He had to pull back because hunching over him was starting an ache in his old bones, but it left him with an open view of Micolash, sprawled back on the bed, beaded with light sweat, groping at his own breasts. He watched his stomach too, that bloated thing, how the glow shifting inside it like waves, heaving with his labored breaths. It was hypnotic, and frightening, and it made something in his stomach twist. Micolash pulled a hand away to feel blindly at the bedside table, accidentally pushing a pile of papers to the floor. Damien’s first instinct was to offer help, but somehow he couldn’t find the will to stop thrusting, his tongue feeling fat and heavy within his jaw.

“There!”

It was a little vial of blood. Damien hadn’t noticed it, as one wouldn’t something so mundane, but Micolash had a knowing look that implied there was something to be excited about. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, still using his other hand to twist furiously at his teat, and the scent filled the room immediately. It was of high quality, whore’s menses, fresh and rich, the kind of blend they would scoff at, up in the towers of the Cathedral Ward in Yharnam. They would be wrong to. Sex drew the arcane in like no other medium, when done correctly, focused the attentions of those who so desired to conceive.

“Together, then!”

Micolash tipped the glass to his lips and sucked the contents out. Damien dove in as soon as his target was unobstructed, crashing their mouths together, and was immediately rewarded when Micolash eagerly shared his riches. The flavor was strong, particularly when mixed with the natural taste of his Headmaster’s mouth. Their tongues groped for one another, the blood frothing into a sticky film that stained their lips. It didn't take long for the intoxicant to light up in his veins, invigorating him to pound their hips together harder. They both bruised at the slightest touch now, in their old age, but it didn’t matter. Micolash was already mottled with spots from his various encounters, and Damien would wear them like badges of pride, the memory giving his cock something to remember til the next time. Even now, he bore the still fading marks around his neck from Micolash biting into him when they’d fucked in the garden the day prior, and his thighs had a straight mark from awkwardly bumping the desk while he’d railed the Headmaster on his desk the Tuesday before.

He put both hands on Micolash’s hips and rode him harder. The blood oozed into his system, clouding all but sensation, which sharpened to predatory caliber. The hum of his veins, the squeeze of his muscles, the scent of his gushing cunt; Damien was aware of it all tenfold, and when they peeled open slightly in a lazy smile, he could tell Micolash was equally heightened by the shine in his black eyes.

“Harder, Damo,” he urged, reaching back down to frame their connection with his fingers, “Get in there!”

If they fucked much harder, he was liable to break a hip, but it didn’t prevent him from trying. Micolash pinched back the hood of his clit, rubbing himself in time, the extra stimulation sending little shock waves throughout his cunt, passing the pleasure on to Damien. He could feel some of that weight, the pressure Micolash had been talking about whenever his cock slammed against the opening of his cervix, unnaturally bloated even enough to be noticeable in Micolash’s cavernous vagina. He angled himself to rub against it with each thrust, and Micolash howled joyfully.

They continued to move together, growing louder and more sloppy. Micolash was so wet now that every plunge inside him forced out a splash of fluid, occasionally accompanied by a proper squirt if he hit the right spot. He’d locked his ankles at Damien’s back, urging him on evermore, insatiable, and it was only by the grace of his age that Damien managed to keep from finishing too quickly himself. It wasn't until Micolash’s pussy began the rhythmic shudders he knew signified impending orgasm that he let himself go. Feeling his control bend past the breaking point, Micolash chuckled breathlessly, grabbing his wrist with the hand not occupied.

“Yes, give it to me.”

Damien obliged. The snapping of his hips turned erratic, pumping into him even as hot shots of jism pulsed from his tight balls, mixing with Micolash’s slick into pearly bubbles. Micolash himself seemed to curl in, moaning happily, following after. Damian managed to pull his hand away from the bruise it had made on Micolash’s hip and locked their fingers together, and, wonder of wonders, Micolash let him, the intimacy a kindness he didn’t often care for, even in these sometimes secluded moments. It made the pleasure peak, and Damien found himself groaning as he finished, like he was again the hapless young man who had first been seduced by his student all those years ago.

Micolash was still twitching and muttering when he pulled out, but, hot as he was inside, Damien was almost worried they would melt together if he stayed much longer. He lay down onto his back parallel the Headmaster, trying to catch his breath. In the afterglow, he almost felt as if they were truly connected, not just himself to the Cosmos, but he and Micolash, as if the experiments they had performed together, the closeness they had shared over the years, meant something more, and the great thing that writhed in the Headmaster’s stomach was really a child they had made together, their child.

“It’s coming,” Micolash groaned, wriggling, pawing at himself. Damien started.

“Oh, did you not…? Here, let me help you.”

“No, Damien,” Micolash urged, looking him right in the eye, so that he could see the stars blooming in them, “ _It’s_ coming!”

Damien jumped up.

“Oh! Oh!”

The pleasure of his orgasm was nothing beside the excitement that bubbled in his breast now. He wrung his hands, pacing about quickly as he concluded upon and then aborted several courses of action, all while Micolash watched him, pupils blown.

“Let me just – goodness, pardon me – let me gather the others-!”

“Your trousers!”

Micolash laughed from the bed, and Damien paused, hand on the doorknob. He was still entirely nude, stinking of sex. He looked back, bewildered by his own enthusiasm, and Micolash had propped himself up against another pillow at the headboard.

“Unless, of course, you intended to break the news with a little something extra,” he laughed again, but then tilted his head back moaned oddly, his thighs flexing. Damien sobered up considerably, running to get dressed and taking the opportunity to give Micolash another once over. He looked very little changed from their affair moments before, the dark folds of his labia fallen open loosely around where he leaked white streaks of Damien’s own jism, but his expression had turned somewhat strained.

Once he’d clothed himself, Damien muttered a few hurried explanations and bolted. He truly was a good and dear friend. Micolash had already known this, of course, and had expected his swift response, but it was a sentiment he found himself expressing nonetheless. He did not dwell on the queer sense of affection long, however, as another surge hit him, his muscles cramping as they began to open. He’d experienced labor before, many times, but it had always been at varying stages of the pregnancy, usually the hallmark of failure and miscarriage. The few times he had come to term had been significantly early in the process, after only a few months time, and he had only been half as full. The pain was ignorable, compared to the excitement, for even in loss there was always something to be learned.

Now, however, it was beginning to twist inside him in a manner he had never experienced before, and Micolash could not help but become giddy with anticipation. How awful it would feel, to be torn apart when this wonder came into their world, and yet how fantastic. Already, as the dilation continued, a sense of continued pleasure rippled up his thighs, as if echoing his orgasm. His hand had never left the cleft of his vulva, absently massaging the swollen flesh, stirring the embers.

When Damien returned, a whole horde of scholars followed; some of the senior staff more experienced with medical study and ritual, and a few interested students who had the honor of currently being enrolled in an internship. Lucky, really, as many had been witness to his past births, to the failures, but never before had anyone seen what they were about to.

“Gather round,” he ordered joyfully, spreading his thighs into a wide lithotomy position, albeit one where his back remained partially upright.

They knew the process well by now, and set about to preparing the room. Micolash allowed himself to be pampered with minimal interruption, comfortable that they were experienced enough to not need direction. All the while he masturbated himself lazily, contractions beginning to ripple inside him. For how large it was, things were progressing quickly. It ached in his spine, every part of him realigning to ensure safe passage to the new and terrible life inside him. Not for the first time, he wondered absently if the birth would kill him. There was no fear behind the thought, only excitement.

The head of the crew didn’t balk at the sight of semen dribbling from his cunt, wriggling in two fingers from each hand and easily pulling him open. His cervix was easily visible, when Micolash flexed the right way, though the pleasure lingering within him made him pulse noticeably. The teacher frowned.

“Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

Damien, who could not see as clearly, shot him a look.

“What do you mean by that?”

Micolash snorted.

“Don’t be pettish, Damo.”

“He can’t have only just begun contractions,” the scholar, a ritual head, continued, annoyed, “I'd say he’s already at about four centimeters.”

Damien paused, and then pushed between them to look for himself. He hadn’t been lying.

“Oh, that,” Micolash said drowsily, “I've had enough go in and out there to get used to it.”

One of the graduate students began scribbling notes furiously. Damien sighed anxiously through his nostrils.

“We don’t know what form the child will take, if any that lies within our human ability to perceive. Any abnormalities must be monitored strictly.”

The scholar nodded, taking his hands out of Micolash’s vagina. It did not close fully, even then, flexing along to his breaths.

For about a half hour, very little happened beyond him huffing and groaning, the slow expanding of his cervix making him shudder with cramps. It was good they had time, to gather the candles and incense, the blood, donning their gloves and cages. They had made a cradle for the Great One, a large, iron barred container, ornately decorated with blue loch glass and a heavy padlock, which was wheeled in by a few upperclassmen who had to be ushered out after catching a glimpse of their Headmaster’s wrinkled pussy. Micolash basked in the building pull at his gut, uncaring of the commotion around him, rubbing himself when it wasn’t getting in the way of someone’s fingers. No pleasure could be greater than that which was yet to come.

Then, a pinch inside him stilled his hand. It hit him all at once. Micolash groaned lowly, and a gush of fluid burst from his cunt. This was it, the signal, the life inside having breached the portal, reaching to grasp at their world. It felt like cumming, and like dying. The surge of his next contraction was so intense, so hard, that he could not control his bladder, a thin arc of piss splashing in the puddle that was quickly forming beneath him. The ritualists prodded at him excitedly, holding open his vagina to show his progress to the room, and each time Micolash would reach down with them to palm himself, mesmerized by his own gaping sex, pulling on his burning clit, until it all became to much and he could lift himself no longer, only able to spasm at their touch.

He had strived for this moment for decades. It would be a success this time, even if he did not live to see it.

A twist inside had him howling, throwing his head back into the pillows so hard the headboard banged against the wall. The students hurried back and fourth, carrying bowls of water for the scholars and to wet rags with, with which they attempt to clean some of the sweat from Micolash’s brow and chest. He clawed at himself, at the sheets, bound by the exquisite ecstasy of pain, until Damien and one of the others grabbed his hands and held them, to keep him from further injuring himself. Each strain took a little more of his breath, and yet he still found it within himself to call to the heavens in wordless, animal screams. His insides felt as if they would all be expelled, like he was trying to squeeze out the very essence of his own life.

“Is it coming?” Damien snapped impatiently at the appointed head of ceremony, whose arms were covered in blood and clear streaks of fluid up to the elbows. He had a scalpel in his hand, and Damien realized he had just started an episiotomy, preparing for the worst. The answer was uncertain, largely drowned out by another impressively projected yowl from their Headmaster.

The voice that had been whispering to him, these past months, had returned, much louder, but Micolash still could not quite make it out. He begged it for meaning, as the cosmos bloomed behind his eyelids, but it was still too far away, but only just. The roaring, the screaming, it deafened him to his own sounds, all but the blood rushing in his ears and his teeth grinding hard enough to crack when another contraction throttled him. He tore his hands away from their keepers, reaching to the stars, but he was too weak to grasp at them. A million tiny deaths, one enormous conception. Thousands of eyes opening for the first time, only to be blind within the dark tunnel they had yet to escape. Cold water swirling. The pain clawed burning trails along the inside of his womb, one long and anguished orgasm. More fluid squirted from him, uterine and sexual.

Night had fallen, then passed. The students were relieved of duty and sent to trade places with their next in line. The staff periodically switched out to eat and relieve themselves. Damien barely left his side the entire time, growing more dishevel all the while. At one point he was told that it was lunch time, and that he should eat, but he refused it, annoyed they’d even ask. As if he could be removed from this spot, deprived of a single moment of the process. Micolash had lost so much blood, even while he rolled in ecstasy, and the room stank. They'd have to clear out everything, when this was over, replace it all. It didn’t matter. If this were a success, they wouldn’t be using these rooms much longer, anyways.

Dinner came and went. An offering of coldblood flowers was sent up from some of those not attending the ritual, which Damien busied himself with arranging on the bedside. They seemed to perk, in the room. Micolash’s vagina gaped, cervix dilated wider than a fist. The thing inside was slow to emerge, hour by hour, barely having made itself known. It looked like ground meat, Damien thought, or perhaps little screaming faces. Every way you turned your head, it changed, and it was hard to see anyways between the bodies and the hands constantly pulling Micolash this way and that, trying to urge him open wider so that it could come free. It twitched every now and then, though, he was sure of it, and that alone was enough to keep Damien from despair. It lived.

In the middle of the second night, however, Micolash stopped screaming, and he lay very still, only moaning now and then, when his body would heave. Fluid no longer spurted out around the lump, its bloated mass blocking him up so thoroughly that it trapped the ritual sea inside him, and for hours now there had been no movement at all. Damien would occasionally take one of the wash rags himself, stroking back Micolash’s matted hair, and he could feel the way his forehead burned, feverish, and he began to fear.

When the morning began to dawn, Micolash could no longer even writhe, laying flat and boneless, like a corpse. The color had drained from his already greyed skin, now sallow and sunken. It disturbed Damien how clearly he could make out the shape of his skull behind it. Every breath was shallow and rattled within his breast.

“I'm going to get someone.”

He gripped Micolash’s hand and was shocked by how cold it was. Within their dark sockets, Micolash’s eyes swiveled to him.

“Damo,” he cooed softly, raw from his howling, “there is nothing to be done for it. Cut it out of me, and continue my work.”

“No,” Damien said firmly, gripping him tightly, “no, it will not end here! Your work will continue, with you!”

Micolash chuckled quietly, wheezing when another contraction hit. The veins in his forehead bulged.

“Who could change this, Damo? Who could do more than what we have already done…”

He was right, but Damien didn’t want to hear it. He clasped Micolash’s hand to his face and kissed it for a long moment, and then he stood fully.

“Keep him alive.”

The staff nodded solemnly, looking down between Micolash’s legs as if looking into an open grave. Damien turned heel and fled before his emotions could become any more obvious.

It was not fair. After all this time, all this effort, Micolash would live to see his work’s fruit borne. They were not those idiots of the Upper Cathedral, no willing martyrs letting their bodies pave the way for lesser men. He would not die like Moses on the hill. Damien would call upon heaven and hell to preserve him.

He was not more than a few feet down the hall when the wave hit him. It did not knock him off his feet, or ruffle the curtains in the window, or even make an audible sound, but he felt it, like a heartbeat, like a glare at his back, like the cold whispers of the moon. He turned around and looked at the door. Nothing had changed, but he felt a deep dread.

The door hit something a few inches into the room, and Damien had to ram it to get it open the rest of the way. It was the corpse of one of the students, or part of it, at least. He looked like he had been blown apart by a bomb. The room was caked in gore, pieces of human entrails, arms and legs, hair, draped across everything, the carpet squishing beneath his shoes. Their cages had been torn apart from the inside out. It stank, a smell he was used to in the laboratory, death and fear and piss. He did not panic, though, because Micolash was sitting up against the headboard, and he was holding a great bloody lump. When he saw him, he grinned widely, exhaustion making new lines on his face.

“It’s here.”

Damien looked down, and immediately felt a sharp, explosive pain inside his skull. His jaw dropped open wordlessly, and he half fell to his knees, clutching at his skull. The next moment it was gone, and he could hear Micolash fussing about on the bed.

“No, no, we don’t need that, now, do we?”

It took him a few minutes to collect himself. The capillaries behind one eye had burst, a tear of blood trickling down his cheek. He touched his ear, and there was blood there too.

“Damien, look at it.”

He pulled himself up, and he did. The Great One was a tangle of flesh and eyes, terrible to behold, cuddled into Micolash’s lap like a puppy. It hurt to look at, not the same pain as before, but a constant throbbing pulse behind his brow. He wondered how Micolash could be as close to it as he was.

“It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Blood and viscera streaked up Micolash’s body from where he had dragged it out between his own thighs. Damien wanted to brush him down, but he was afraid to reach out. Micolash lay in a halo of sweat, the child in his arms, a Madonna of the new age.

“We’ve done it,” he croaked, “we really have!”

Amidst the corpses of his colleagues, Damien had never been more in love.

“We have,” he repeated, “we have.”


End file.
